Baleo's POV
Alright, Gorakk.
Let's see what makes you the arena's favorite monster.
I keep the wooden claymore low, angled at my hip.
Its weight is familiar—solid oak, reinforced with mana channels etched into the grain.
A weapon that punishes instead of cuts.
Gorakk doesn't approach—he charges.
A wall of fur and muscle tears across the sand, claws digging trenches behind him.
He leaps—no run-up, no wind-up—just raw Beastkin power.
His shadow swallows me whole.
I throw myself sideways.
He lands like a meteor.
The ground explodes under his fists.
Sand kicks up like smoke.
The arena floor cracks where I stood a heartbeat before.
He lands on all fours and snaps toward me—
Eyes blazing, teeth bared.
No tactics. Just instinct.
He lunges.
I sprint into him, dropping into a slide.
His claws rake the space above me—
They sound like steel scraping stone.
During the slide, I twist my torso—
Momentum loads the swing—
THUD.
The claymore buries itself into his ribs.
No gash.
No blood.
Just the sound of flesh giving way and the air leaving his lungs.
Gorakk roars—more animal than man—
I slip between his legs and swing upward at his ankles.
The wood slams bone.
Something cracks.
He collapses, knees smashing the ground.
I jump, bringing the blade down like a hammer—
And then everything goes sideways.
He grabs my ankle.
Like a child seizing a toy.
The arena whirls—sand, sky, spectators—
Then a wall stops me.
Aegis Veil flares, the impact absorbed like diving into cold water instead of stone.
Still hurts.
Every bone complains.
I barely have a breath before he's coming again—
Gorakk on all fours, sprinting like a hunting cat.
I force myself forward to meet him.
His fist swings—
A boulder wrapped in fur.
I raise the claymore and jam the flat against it—
BANG.
The shock rattles my arm to the shoulder.
Mana recoil numbs half my hand.
He brings both fists down to crush me—
No time to think.
I funnel mana into the claymore.
The wood changes—
Not sharper—
denser, heavier, vibrating like it wants to crack the earth.
I step into him—
and swing upward.
The strike catches him under the jaw.
His head snaps back—
A spray of spit and broken roar.
His body staggers—
Opening.
I stomp the earth.
Mana surges through my soles.
The arena responds like a beast called by name.
A stone pillar launches me skyward.
I arc over him—
Twist—
Gravity and momentum lining up behind my arms.
I bring the claymore down—
A single crushing blow.
The sound is horrifying—like a tree splitting under an axe.
Gorakk hits the floor.
The arena breaks beneath him.
A crater blooms.
Dust rises like smoke on a battlefield.
For one breath…
the entire stadium is silent.
Then—
It explodes.
A roar of thousands slams into me.
Stomping, cheering, screaming, chanting.
Gorakk lies motionless.
Chest still moving.
Alive.
Beastkin are built to survive what would kill humans.
But he won't be standing up today.
I sling the claymore back over my shoulder, exhaling through clenched teeth.
Beastkin strength really is unfair.
Good.
I never trained for fair fights.
I trained to win.
I look over to see my wife among the frantic crowd—people cheering, stomping, crying out my name—and yet her eyes find mine instantly.
I lift my chin and smile, slow and steady.
Let her know I'm standing. Let her know I'm fine.
Then I glance down.
Aren is in her arms, bundled in a soft blanket, round eyes reflecting the light of the arena.
He isn't crying.
He isn't scared.
He's just… looking at me.
That tiny gaze hits harder than any blow Gorakk landed.
A few months old, and he watches me like I'm already someone worth believing in.
That look—pure, wordless awe—reminds me why I swing this blade.
Why I bleed for it.
Why I have to win.
I rest the claymore against my shoulder and breathe in the thunder of the crowd.
I'll win this tournament.
I'll carve a legacy strong enough for him to walk without fear.
I'll make sure the world knows the name he'll inherit—
Aren Solis.
Even if it kills me.
Aren's POV
After trying to take in all the sudden information of this brand-new world, after watching my father,
I think it's best for me to just… stop processing it.
Back on Earth, I've had my fair share of fights.
People say boxing matches are the pinnacle of competitive intensity.
Watching that fight just now made me feel like a toddler trying to compare a sparring ring to a damn warzone.
It was like watching Thor fight the Hulk—
except they're both real
and they're actually trying to kill each other.
As terrifying as it was…
It was so fucking sick.
I start wondering if any of this is even real.
Did I really die?
The last thing I remember was that… dream.
Right.
Does that mean I ended up here through magic?
Was it that girl who brought me here?
Who even is she?
The more I think, the less the answers look black and white.
Not knowing anything—how or why—
makes me feel smaller.
Makes this world feel bigger, heavier.
And deep down there's this fear, like a cold hand wrapped around my spine.
But… let's not ignore the elephant in the room.
Magic—mana—exists here.
I just watched a man summon a stone pillar from the ground like it was second nature.
Maybe one day I'll be able to do that too.
Maybe… This is my second chance.
I think back to Earth.
To when my parents died.
To how I just… gave up.
I always felt guilty about it.
Like everything I ever did—boxing, training, pushing myself—
was only because of them.
And when they were gone, I threw everything away like none of my own dreams were real.
If they could see me now… would they be disappointed?
I spiral down that thought, sinking into negativity again—
questions I can't answer piling up—
And then my mother gently turns my head toward her.
Almost every single thought vanishes when I see her face.
She's smiling at me
with this warm, radiant pride,
eyes sparkling from the reflection of the arena flames.
Reina: "Isn't your daddy so cool? I wonder if you'll be as cool and handsome as him one day, hehe."
She lifts me a little higher, angling me toward the stadium floor.
And there he is.
My father stands in the center of the battlefield, dust still rising around him,
the crowd shaking the air with his name—
yet his gaze is locked on us.
On her.
On me.
He waves at us with the goofiest, most wholesome smile imaginable.
Not the terrifying monster-slayer everyone just witnessed—
but a dad showing off to his wife and kid.
Just like that, the darkness in my head cracks.
And against all reason, I find myself admiring this big, goofy idiot…
…because in that moment, he isn't a warrior or a champion—
He's my father.
A few hours passed, and it helped me understand just how insane this world I've been reborn into truly is.
People casually fight like it's a neighborhood basketball game—except instead of sweat and trash talk, they're firing blasts of mana, summoning stone walls, and swinging weapons bigger than the bodies holding them. I watched a Druumen barely taller than my dad's knee heft a hammer the size of an SUV's wheel. A healer with pale Anaric skin mended a broken arm with green sparks like dancing fireflies, while the fighter begged to go back in and finish his opponent.
No logic from Earth exists here. Absolutely none.
And yet everyone around me treated it like watching somebody mow their lawn.
But even they—these battle-loving lunatics—fell quiet over one thing.
My father.
Baleo Solis stood alone at the center of the arena.
The other seven fighters lay scattered around him like defeated bosses from a video game.
He hadn't just won—he annihilated them.
It was surreal.
That hulking monster of a Beastkin—Gorakk—was apparently just his warm-up.
The sunset spilled across the arena like glowing amber, catching on my father's claymore, stretching his shadow long across the sand. The crowd stared in collective awe, thousands of people and dozens of races holding their breath as if the world turned just to watch him breathe.
And yet… All he did was rub his stomach.
He waved at us with the dumbest grin, hand on his belly like he'd only just finished mowing the garden, instead of reenacting the Battle of Olympus.
I'm starting to understand—this is just who he is.
Mother seemed to think the same.
Reina: "Seriously."
She chuckled to herself.
Reina: "What an idiot. An adorable one at that, right?"
"Aaah."
I tried my best for my baby noises to translate into something like 'Absolutely.'
She laughed like she understood.
Announcer: "THE WINNER—THE IRONBOUND FANG, BALEO SOLIS!"
The whole stadium erupted like a volcano—roaring, stomping, screaming his name.
Even the Beastkin, who normally only respected strength, slammed fists to their chests in salute. The Elari mages raised glowing sigils in the air that spun like golden constellations. Someone behind us actually fainted.
And my dad?
He just stretched like he finished a jog.
An hour crawled by as Mom and I waited near the front gate. Her sling wrapped around me kept me warm against her chest. The city beyond the arena glimmered with lanterns and polished stone—Ashenfold was beautiful at dusk, all spiraling towers and carved bridges that caught fire in sunset light.
The gate finally opened.
My mother rushed him before he could say anything, hugging him so hard she crushed me between them.
Guys.
Help.
I'm dying here.
Baleo: "How was it, honey? Wasn't I so cool?"
He flexed his bicep like some medieval influencer.
Reina: "Yes, darling. You were amazing."
A tiny kiss on the cheek, and he immediately shrank like she deflated him with a pin.
Way to remind me that I'm a 4–5 month old third wheel to two aggressively-in-love people.
He gently pried me from the sling and lifted me like a trophy.
Baleo: "How was it? You better remember this, Aren! Remember your father is the coolest!"
Although I don't understand what he's saying, I can tell from his smug face.
I wanted to tell him I admired him.
That I was proud.
That he terrified me and inspired me at the same time.
All I could do was smile… that uncontrollable baby smile.
And it worked.
Something in his expression broke open—he softened, eyes glowing amber in the fading light, like the last flame in a dying campfire. He kissed my cheek again and again, mumbling nonsense praise while I internally gagged.
I glanced at Mom.
She was glowing too—not with magic, but with something even warmer.
The sun settled behind the arena walls, painting us gold.
The cheers faded to murmurs.
The stones under our feet held leftover heat from the day.
For the first time since waking in this tiny body…
the world didn't feel terrifying.
Just warm.
Like maybe… this time, those colors won't rot away.
As the sun sank lower, slipping beneath the horizon like it was giving the stage to the moon, we sat in a carriage headed home. The wheels worked their way along smooth stone, quiet enough that I could hear every soft laugh between my parents. Their voices sounded different now—looser, lighter—like the day's tension had melted from their shoulders.
Reina leaned into Baleo, brushing her shoulder against his arm as she teased him about one of his "sloppy" swings earlier in the match. Baleo countered, claiming he held back so he wouldn't break the practice claymore. They were flirting in a way I had never truly seen between real parents before—gentle, familiar, warm. It reminded me of something I once understood, long ago, before the crash… but fragile memories slip through my fingers when I reach for them.
I look past them to the window, letting my eyes drink everything in.
The city glows behind us. Not with cold neon or car headlights, but with breathing light—stones embedded into the walls pulse softly like calm heartbeats. Lanterns line the road, crystal orbs hovering just above the posts, bobbing slightly as if they're floating on unseen tides. High above, I catch sight of suspended islands: distant silhouettes with waterfalls drifting off their edges like silver ribbons.
On the opposite side of the carriage, the night reveals a different world entirely. Small creatures crawl through the tall grass, and every time they hop or scamper, they leave glowing prints behind them. One animal that looks half-rabbit, half-fox pauses mid-path. The moon bathes its fur in pale blue light, and the little thing lights up—as if the world itself acknowledged its existence. It blinks at me slow and curious before disappearing into the brush.
The stars are everywhere. Not drowned out, not swallowed by a city that refuses to sleep—just there. Clear. Sharp. Like someone tossed diamonds across a black canvas. Back home, in the life I lost, everything was loud. Bright. Constant. I was always tense, always bracing. Even as a baby, stuck in a body that couldn't walk yet, some old part of me remembers what it was like to hold fear and exhaustion in my chest.
But here?
I'm in my mother's sling, pressed gently against her. I can smell the warm scent of her clothes, feel Baleo's laughter rumble from the seat across from us, and all I can think is: I'm safe.
The sway of the carriage blurs the world a little. The stars stretch into lines, the glowing critters drift like fireflies, the sound of my parents becomes a soft hum. My eyelids grow heavy, heavier… every blink lasts longer than the last.
The night wraps around me like a blanket.
And slowly… gently… everything fades…
until there is nothing but warmth…
and quiet…
and sleep.
Distant voices ripple through the dark, muffled by smoke and heat.
Explosions crack like thunder, shaking the ground beneath me.
My eyes snap open.
Everything is fire.
Not metaphorical, not dramatic—actual fire swallowing the world.
Heat claws at my lungs.
Breathing feels like sucking air from an oven.
I can't move.
I'm not me.
I'm inside someone else's body, frozen in their skin, forced to watch.
"You can't do this. You can't leave me."
The voice is trembling—hers.
"I have no choice."
The reply is calm, resolved.
Male.
Older.
Someone strong—or trying to look strong.
"I'm the only one who can save this place."
"Please—"
Her voice cracks, desperation bleeding through.
"Listen to me."
His tone sharpens.
"Everything I did… every step… was for the future of this world. Even if I fall, I've already set the path. Someone has to make this sacrifice."
The girl—the girl from every dream—stands in front of me.
Same hair.
Same eyes.
Same overwhelming presence.
Only this time she isn't a mystery.
She's terrified.
Her hands shake like she's holding the world together with her palms.
"Fine," she whispers.
"But if you're going to do this… I'm going with you."
Her voice is hollow.
Not anger.
Not defiance.
Just sadness so sharp it cuts through me, piercing a heart that wasn't mine.
And it hurts.
Why does it hurt?
My vision collapses like someone snuffed out a candle.
—
I blink again, and suddenly I'm staring at a bedroom ceiling.
A crib.
A pair of hands lifting my legs.
Cold wipes.
I'm getting my diaper changed.
Lira is wiping me down—like it's just another Tuesday morning—but her eyes…
She isn't just looking at a baby.
She's staring straight into me.
Focused.
Searching.
Like she's peeling back layers and trying to find something beneath the newborn face.
Does she know?
Does she—
No.
She looks away, snaps the diaper shut, and walks out as if nothing happened.
…Great.
Being stared at like that while someone is wiping your ass is definitely top-10 worst moments of my existence.
But the dream—this time it wasn't like the others.
Same girl.
Same scene.
But the words were in this world's language…
and I understood them.
Not translated.
Not processed.
Just—known.
It was like watching a movie with subtitles burned into your brain.
Those explosions…
That man…
That promise of sacrifice…
And her, always her.
Why does she keep appearing?
Why does the memory feel familiar?
Why does my chest hurt when I think of her?
I don't have answers, and the questions circle in my head like vultures.
Eventually, the exhaustion wins.
I let my thoughts dissolve.
I'm asleep before I realize I've closed my eyes.